The seagulls are blowing about
like pieces of white paper,
in the gentle swell of the breeze;
just as yesterday in a dust-devil,
I saw a piece of waste paper
doing the most graceful ballet,
turning and rolling up the brick wall
of a square pillar,
it folded and unfolded at the whim of the wind,
and catching my attention as it first rose,
kept me mesmerised by the beauty of it's dance.

Such suddenly presented moments
do not last, their very acts
caused by random air currents
that catch or snatch all delicate things,
and tossing them to space, play with them;
are these nature's toys, that she employs
fired with the momentum of desire?
She can overdo and bring catastrophe
on beach and hill, tear off chimney pots
crack the rocks and devastate this earth,
when she was only playing,
toying with her force,
and does she feel remorse?